Lally and Prosper accompanied the policeman to the door while Roger remained in the drawing-room, looking down at the tiny scrap of humanity which seemed so curiously and unreasonably happy.
‘What a start in life,’ he thought, remembering his own.
He sighed, and turned as Prosper and Lally re-entered, their arms entwined. Lally sat in a chair near to the baby and Prosper stood with his arm on the mantelpiece.
‘Not going to the office today, Roger?’ he asked.
‘Of course I am,’ Roger replied, looking at the clock. ‘But I wanted to do all I could here first, to support you. Poor little ... Well.’ He stooped and kissed Lally. ‘It is best that he goes. It is a sad thing, but it was not your fault it happened and it is not your responsibility.’
‘It does seem somehow like fate,’ Lally murmured, gripping the arms of her chair. She looked pale and close to tears.
‘Fate?’ Roger looked puzzled.
‘Why this house? Why us? There must be some connection with us. That’s what I mean by fate.’
‘My dear Lally.’ Prosper moved over to her again and patted her shoulder. ‘I promise you anything in the world you like, but not ... I beg you.’
‘But you could never give me a baby, Prosper,’ Lally whimpered, and then she suddenly burst into tears.
For the next few days the Martyn family continued in a state of crisis. Prosper, who hated any interference with his affairs, was furious at having to cancel his visit to the Continent on account of a foundling. Roger worried about what the Hill family would have to say if they knew his aunt was thinking of giving a home to a baby found on the street. The matter was very carefully kept from Emma, in the hope that Lally would be forced to come to her senses.
One didn’t just adopt stray babies for no reason, he argued. The Hills would be sure to think there was some connection with the family into which they were to marry, some skeleton unearthed from the cupboard.
Unthinkable, out of the question.
Prosper offered to buy her a new kitten, as her cat, Coral, would be going to Roger after his marriage; but, somehow, she did not seem to think it a fair substitute.
The police came and went, so did the authorities from the foundling hospital. A feeble attempt was made to trace a missing baby, but such a task was invariably hopeless unless it was a kidnap, and none was reported.
Lally, meanwhile, had the baby moved upstairs and a spare room turned into a nursery. She bought a cot and baby-clothes on the pretext that while the matter was sorted out, the poor little thing might as well be comfortable.
Prosper rearranged his foreign trip again and, again, had to postpone it. It was becoming difficult to find more excuses to keep Emma away from the house.
Finally Prosper confronted Lally in the drawing-room just before dinner one night, after Alexander, having been there about two weeks, was becoming part of the family.
‘My dear,’ he said firmly, ‘you will have to decide between that child and me.’
‘What?’ Gowned for dinner and looking, as usual, radiant and beautiful, she gazed at him with incredulity.
‘I’m afraid the joke has gone much too far,’ he said sternly. ‘You seem to have taken leave of your senses, to have abandoned your normal wise and impeccable judgment. I see that, in time, the task of prising that baby out of your hands will be impossible. My dear, I am a man of seventy and you are nearly fifty. Do you realise what adopting a small baby will mean? What it will do to our lives? It is absurd. I forbid it. I do not want it ...’
‘But, Prosper darling.’ She rose to her feet and amorously encircled his shoulders with her arms. ‘That is how you felt about Roger. Think back, my love. How happy he has made us. Did you ever regret that decision?’
‘That was ... years ago. I was a much younger man,’ he protested.
‘But you don’t have to do anything, my dearest, do you? We engaged tutors, we sent Roger to school. With this baby there will be nursemaids. You will not know he is here.’
‘Of course I shall know he is here,’ Prosper said angrily. ‘His presence will disrupt our lives. Lally, this is a baby only a month or so old. Roger was twelve. Besides, he was your son. This case is completely different.’
Outside the door, Roger, just on the verge of entering, paused. Then he leaned his head against the door and, after a few seconds, regained his composure enough to enter.
The lights burnt very late that night at the house in Montagu Square. It had been an evening of emotional storms. There had been tears, shouts, recriminations; more tears. Lally wept bitterly, recalling her skills as an actress. She maintained a non-stop torrent. At one point Roger had seemed on the verge of leaving the house, until he was reminded of what the Hills might think, what they might surmise.
‘The main thing is,’ Prosper emphasised in a voice broken by strain, ‘that normality should continue and be seen to continue ...’
And yet all this time you have treated me as a nephew,’ Roger said in a quivering voice. ‘Why could you not acknowledge me as Aunt’s ...’ he didn’t know now what to call her ... ‘as Lally’s son?’
‘For the same reason that we cannot adopt baby Alexander ... Such things are not done. We had a position in society, and such a revelation would have been impossible.’
‘I have been deprived of a mother’s love,’ Roger said bitterly.
‘But, my darling, you had my love,’ Lally said in a quavering voice. ‘I did all I could for you, believe me. You have always had a mother’s love, darling, always. Hasn’t he, Prosper?’
‘Always,’ Prosper said gruffly. ‘And I have loved you, and love you now as my son.’
Roger turned away and gazed out of the window at the gas-lamps flickering in the square.
The chimes of Big Ben in the distance could be heard striking midnight. He felt that he had in his hands the fate not only of himself but of one small child who, as he had been, many years ago, was a foundling.
He looked at Lally, a picture of dejection, her beauty faded, suddenly seeming old.
His mother. Maybe he’d always known it; but he experienced for her at that moment less affection than he had ever had. He felt cold and detached and angry. He felt he hated her.
‘I suppose the twelve years I spent in a tenement in Kentish Town mean nothing to you ...’
‘Of course they did.’ Lally stretched out her hands. ‘Of course; but until I met Prosper I had no means of upkeep. And you were not sent to an orphanage, but fostered by the sister of my maid. I always came to see you, Roger.’
‘Lady Bountiful,’ he sniggered. ‘With your high-handed manner and fine clothes. You should have heard what they said about you after you left.’
‘Enough of that,’ Prosper snapped. ‘Your mother did what she could. But society is never very tolerant of ... fallen women. Even I was not consulted when she brought you into the house. Ever since, I have accepted you as my adopted son.’
Roger gazed at the man on whom his life depended. After all, what would happen to him if he walked out now? Love that was not blood-love could soon wane.
‘As soon as I am married I shall be leading my own life. It is all you can expect. I am hurt now, and angry, but I hope that, in time, that will pass. Above all, I never want this to be referred to again, or anyone to be told about it.’
‘You don’t want Emma to know?’ Lally asked timidly.
‘I especially don’t want Emma or her parents to know,’ Roger said angrily. ‘I don’t want to proclaim my illegitimacy. They may call off the marriage. They must never know.’ He turned to Lally with the air of a judge delivering a sentence. ‘I will never call you Mother and I will never think of you as Mother ...’
‘But, darling, Roger ...’
‘You lied to me for years and years when it would have been the simplest thing in the world to tell me the truth. You left me for years to be brought up in a slum in Kentish Town, seeing me two or three times a year at most. Why didn’t you leave me for good,
Aunt, and not introduce me to this world where I have never really felt I belonged? I always have one foot in the present; the other in my memories of the past. Sometimes I feel like a fish out of water, acting a part.’
Prosper went over to Roger and put a hand on his arm.
‘Dear boy, once you have time to reflect ... you will see that your mother did what she did for the best. She always had your welfare at heart. That I swear. She gave you life and, eventually, a good life. You must remember that.’ As Roger continued to stare at him stubbornly, he went on: ‘I did my best, too. I have helped you, made you my heir. I love you and I have a great regard for you. Forget the past, begin again. Life is before you; you are to be married to a lovely girl, to be a partner in a mighty business.’
Roger stood there for a moment, clearly lost in thought.
It was true, all true. He had too much to lose. Finally he held out his hand to Prosper.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘It is not you I blame, so much as ...’ He turned to Lally, whose face was buried in her handkerchief. ‘Well, enough said.’ He walked slowly to the door, opened it, and left without turning round.
The effect was deadly, even worse than all the shouting that had preceded it.
Lally and Prosper sat for some time after Roger had departed. The lights were low and the room had grown cold. Prosper was worried about Lally’s immobility and he moved over to sit beside her, and raised her pale, limp hand to his lips. He bent and kissed her cheeks, but they were cold too. He was alarmed about her. He tenderly put his hands around her face. The expression in her eyes was tragic.
‘My darling Lally,’ he said. ‘Tonight has been an ordeal for us all. For you, Roger and for me. We have all lost. We should have told Roger years ago. That is the part he resents. But he will get over it, I’m sure, because he is sensible, and he will have Emma’s love. That will reassure him, as yours has always been of such comfort to me. Meanwhile, I have been thinking. I can see Alexander means a lot to you. I shall not be pleased, it may cause a distance between us; but you may adopt him if you wish. He will console you for Roger’s alienation, his eventual loss when he is married.
‘After all, two wrongs don’t make a right, and I hope that, maybe, after all this misery and confusion, out of it can come a little good. Maybe God has spoken to us through the means of a helpless child.’
10
Sophie had known the Reverend Angus Maclean since she and George had first approached the Society with the purpose of going to the foreign missions. He was now about fifty, but appeared hardly to have aged in the last ten years. He was a kindly-looking Scot with thinning hair and a lean, earnest face. He was a true ascetic who had spent many years preaching the Word in the most inaccessible and rugged parts of the world.
The Reverend Maclean had agreed to see her although Sophie had given no hint in her letter of what she wanted. It is not improbable that he guessed.
Sophie travelled to London and arrived at the office in Queen Victoria Street a few minutes before eleven. The gaunt red-brick Victorian buildings, stretched on either side of the thoroughfare, gave no hint of the river that ran as an arterial lifeline at the bottom of the slight incline although, every now and then, a barge would hoot or a ship anchored in the docks further down-stream would sound its siren.
It was a mellow, late autumnal day and Sophie, who had spent the night at a temperance hotel near Waterloo Station, felt a heightened sense of excitement; a sense that this would mark a turning-point in her life.
She had to wait only a few minutes in the rather desolate lobby of the Missionary Society’s headquarters before she was shown into a lift that slowly creaked its way to the fourth floor, past hideous brown-and-cream-coloured walls that reflected mid-nineteenth-century taste, as well as a lack of cash to freshen them up. The stone steps were chipped, and the corridor was of polished granite marked with scratches and deep holes which were almost lethal traps for the unwary.
Hearing the lift stop, the Reverend Maclean came to the door of his room and warmly held out both hands to Sophie in greeting.
‘Welcome, dear sister. It is so good to see you again.’
He drew her into his office, which gave a surprising panoramic view of St Paul’s Cathedral and the steeples of the churches of St Andrew-by-the-Wardrobe and St Stephen Walbrook.
Sophie did not at first register the woman who rose from a seat in the corner of the room and came over to greet her.
‘I don’t think you know Miss Grace Purdy.’ The Reverend Maclean stretched out a hand and drew her forward. ‘She is the assistant missionary secretary and has recently returned from India.’
‘How do you do?’ Sophie was a little surprised to find a third party present, but took the chair her old friend and colleague held out for her and sat down, smiling at Miss Purdy.
‘I am so glad to meet you, Mrs Woodville,’ Miss Purdy said in a voice throbbing with emotion. ‘I was so moved and touched by the testament you gave of your work in New Guinea, where you carried the Word of Our Lord so boldly.’ She bowed her head, and clasped her hands in her lap. ‘I was devastated to hear of the death of your dear husband, now – ‘she pressed her hands earnestly together – ‘a shining soul for Christ.’
Sophie, who had been brought up in the traditions of the English Church as by law established, was averse to the fulsome expressions of Evangelical Christianity, but Miss Purdy was obviously a person whose support she needed, and she smiled her thanks. Angus Maclean had returned to his desk where he sat rereading Sophie’s letter. Then he removed his spectacles, joined his hands and smiled at her, a smile in which she saw understanding and sympathy. Surely there was also room there for hope?
‘Now, my dear Mrs Woodville, how have you been? How are your children? Above all,’ he put his head on one side like a bird, ‘have there been any changes in the attitude of George’s family?’
What a lot of questions. Sophie wondered to herself how many of the mission’s staff were privy to the intimate details of her domestic life.
‘It has been a difficult two years,’ she acknowledged. ‘Two years almost to the month since I returned to Wenham.’ Mr Maclean and Miss Purdy nodded in unison. ‘My parents-in-law were not disposed to encourage me, but my mother-in-law has since died. My father-in-law has welcomed me, and especially my children.’ As her emotions came to the fore she moved awkwardly. ‘I will confess, Angus, that they have not been easy years. My children have settled, but not I. I have missed my beloved husband and, of course, I have missed my vocation: New Guinea. I miss that dear country more than I can say, and my reason for coming here today is to ask if I may be allowed to return.’
For a moment silence reigned in the room, a heavy, pregnant silence like the lull before a storm. Then the minister pulled a file of documents towards him and went through them slowly, turning over each page, as if his mind were on something else.
After a while he shut the file firmly, folded his hands on his desk and looked obliquely at his colleague.
‘Miss Purdy, would you like to say something?’ he said.
Miss Purdy seemed not only prepared but willing, and looked straight at Sophie.
‘Mrs Woodville, we at the mission, knowing of your devotion to Our Lord, had anticipated your request. When you wrote to Mr Maclean he thought that this was indeed what you might have in mind. We realised your burning ardour to serve in the mission field, and were reinvigorated by it, our faith renewed; but I am afraid that, in the circumstances, we could not grant your request.’
‘But that is disgraceful,’ Sophie cried indignantly, rising from her chair. ‘What can you know ...’
‘I am entrusted by the board as the assistant secretary, Mrs Woodville.’ There was a slight edge to Miss Purdy’s voice. ‘I have studied your circumstances with particular care and womanly sympathy; but the Society feels it cannot permit a single woman – one moreover with the onerous responsibilities of two young children – to undertake such arduous work alone.�
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‘You must understand, Sophie,’ – the Reverend Maclean, having left his subordinate to do the dirty work, finally found his voice – ‘that your situation is a difficult one. We send a number of single women who are unencumbered, without dependants.’ He turned to his companion. ‘Miss Purdy was abroad for many years. We send many married couples, as you know. We are not against women, indeed we are not. But to send a mother with children ...’ he shook his head ‘... out of the question, I am afraid. We would be heavily criticised, if not actually censured.’
‘And if I were to leave my children here?’ Sophie asked. ‘Their grandfather would be delighted to have them, besides which, both my parents are still alive.’
There was another ponderous silence, during which Miss Purdy and the Reverend Maclean again exchanged glances.
‘You would not seriously consider doing that, really, would you, Mrs Woodville?’ Miss Purdy’s tone of voice was almost one of disapproval. ‘Surely you would not consider leaving such small children parentless? Suppose, for example, you followed the fate of your husband and did not return?’
Sophie stared defiantly in front of her; her head was beginning to throb.
Angus Maclean rose from his desk and walked round to Sophie, remaining standing slightly behind her.
‘I do so beg you to accept, dear sister, the wisdom of the decision of the board. A Christ-like acceptance can only win adornment to your heavenly crown.’
‘Then the board’s decision is irrevocable?’ Sophie felt her tremendous fighting spirit had gone, stamped out like a flame beneath a harsh heavy boot.
‘When we had your letter asking for a meeting, we naturally anticipated your request. It could of course have been for money, but knowing your husband’s wealthy connections we dismissed that. A board meeting was being held a few days later, and we considered what action we should take if you did ask to return. That is why I asked Miss Purdy to attend today so that, as the board’s secretary, she could confirm its unanimous decision. I am so very sorry, Sophie; but perhaps, in a few years, when the children no longer need you ...’ He shrugged.
The Rector's Daughter (Part Two of The People of this Parish Saga) Page 19